White KKK, Kings of the South premieres to the general public this week. And as we all already know, it will be the white, white, white, white, white, white, whitey-whitest thing that will ever happen in the history of white people, whiteness and people. So white that instead of ticket stubs, the box office will give you a black porter. So white that instead of popcorn, the concession stands will sell buckets of black/jew tears—filtered, thrice boiled and with a spearmint sprig. So white that apparently the first 15 minutes of the movie is just a Huey Long hologram playing spades with George Wallace. So white that at each theater will be actual White KKK with Dobermans and German Sheperds on chains ready to sic on blacks and kikes.
Naturally, all of this tremendous and transformative and transcendent whiteness has made some of us self-conscious. Sure, you listened to Smashing Pumpkins and you drink milk every day, which makes you sufficiently white. But are you white enough to even watch KKK Kings of the South without getting teary-eyed? Without being overcome with PTBR—pride that’s beyond regular?